


Birdsong and Dragonfire

by blanketed_in_stars



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: During The Hobbit, I'm Sorry Tolkien, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Post-Hobbit, and all the little moments in between, anyways this is the bastard child of the book and movies, but let's be real no one ever confesses ANYTHING these idiots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-07
Updated: 2016-03-07
Packaged: 2018-05-25 08:22:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6187273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blanketed_in_stars/pseuds/blanketed_in_stars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Bebother them all,</i> Bilbo thinks again, glaring at Thorin’s back, <i>and confusticate you in particular.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Birdsong and Dragonfire

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Palebluedot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Palebluedot/gifts).



> This started out as fluff but I really couldn't help myself.

“So this is the hobbit,” Thorin says, keen, proud, seeming not out of place in the little hobbit hole but as if he was born there—born to rule it. “Tell me, Mister Baggins, have you done much fighting?” He smiles at Bilbo with the same sort of sneer Bilbo himself might give a snake, or the Sackville-Bagginses, or, come to think of it, unwanted guests.

But beneath that gaze he can do nothing besides puff up and let every hair on his head bristle indignantly. “Pardon me?”

“Axe or sword?” Thorin presses. “What’s your weapon of choice?”

He doesn’t look as if he expects much, and Bilbo is only too aware as he stammers out something about Conkers—entirely irrelevant, and did he just say that out loud?—that he is quickly living up to that expectation.

Thorin’s smirk deepens. “I thought as much,” he sniffs. His gaze is sharp and travels from Bilbo’s head to his hairy feet. When he meets Bilbo’s eyes again, his own hold what looks like a deeper disdain than before. “He looks more like a grocer than a burglar.”

The dwarves laugh, and go into the other room—his own dining room, Bilbo reminds himself, and nobody eats in there anyways, it’s only because there are too many dwarves to fit into the kitchen. _Bebother them all,_ he thinks again, glaring at Thorin’s back, _and confusticate you in particular._

 

Bilbo sighs as he puts his feet up on a stool with a silken cushion, the softest thing he’s felt in weeks. He’s not alone, with quite a few of the dwarves relaxing on the numerous lounges and settles that the elves have gathered for them.

Thorin alone remains standing, although he must be as weary as the rest of them—wearier, with the way he always has to be the best in every fight, and first in line even in long orc-chases over hills and plains. He surveys them all with clear displeasure, but says nothing.

He’s standing closest to Bilbo, who says, “Why don’t you sit?” He wants to swallow the question again as soon as it leaves his mouth.

The gaze that Thorin levels at him makes him wish he had never even thought the words. “Because,” he says, “some of us have no desire for the so-called gifts of the elves. Some of us,” he continues pointedly, “would rather die.”

Someone laughs. It’s Balin, who’s one chair over, looking quite comfortable. “I should hope not,” he says, “or we will never reach Erebor.” He chuckles again. “You were glad enough to drink their wine.”

Thorin doesn’t so much as blink. He lifts his chin slightly, but Bilbo thinks nothing of it—he has a habit of doing that before he speaks, he’s noticed, as if it will make him look more haughty than he is. Not that Bilbo makes a habit of noticing such things. “I’ve taken only what I could not do without,” he says. “Nothing more would I accept.” He glances at Bilbo and swiftly away again. “Not even a handkerchief.”

 

“I haven’t been fair to you, Bilbo,” Thorin says. He’s quiet today, and his tone is thoughtful, barely audible over the noise of the river.

Bilbo straightens his shoulders and swallows his surprise, glad that they’re well removed from the rest of the Company. It’s been a week since the Carrock and Thorin has barely spoken to him or looked his way, despite what he said. Bilbo’s tried not to take it personally, but it’s—well, it’s gone about as well as ignoring the flip of his stomach when Thorin calls him anything other than the burglar. Still. He shoves all that aside, whatever it is, and turns around to see Thorin giving him a peculiar look. “How so?”

Thorin comes closer, fiddling with the fur trim of his coat, which has become rather matted and filthy in the months since they left the Shire. “I have—spoken unjustly.” He purses his lips without meeting Bilbo’s eyes.

“Ah,” Bilbo says, wondering if Thorin has completely forgotten what he said after their rescue by the Eagles. Perhaps he was more badly injured than they thought, and he’s fallen ill. “You already apologized,” he reminds him. “That is to say—it never hurts to say it again, you know, and you didn’t half do it properly the first time around, but—this is the second time.”

With a little smile, Thorin shakes his head. “I remember,” he says. “I apologized for saying that you were a burden, unable to survive and with no place in the Company. I did not,” he continues, “apologize for calling you weak.”

Bilbo coughs. “I—I’m not sure you ever did,” he stammers. “At least, not in those words, if you’re being so specific.”

Thorin waves a dismissive hand. “Don’t be so ungrateful, Bilbo,” he orders. “I’m trying to ask your forgiveness.”

If he weren’t choking on his own tongue from Thorin having used his actual name for the second time in as many minutes, Bilbo would laugh at the irony. As it is, he coughs again. “Let’s hear it, then.”

Thorin blinks, nods, and bows. “I beg your pardon,” he says, “for my harsh words.”

“Very nice,” Bilbo says. “You have my pardon. I hope you feel better about it.”

“I promise you, I will never again call you feeble or frail.”

Somewhat taken aback, Bilbo feels himself start to smile. “That’s quite sufficient,” he says, “and very flattering, I’m sure—”

“I mean it,” Thorin says, and looks into his eyes. It has the same effect, Bilbo thinks, as if Thorin were to grab him and hold him in place. “As long as I live, I’ll not treat you as some poor _nadan utun_ without the strength to lift a load.”

Bilbo doesn’t speak Khuzdul, but he gets the sense of it. “I hope you never treated me like that,” he says, sure that his face is going red and trying to puff himself up to cover it.

“I did,” Thorin says gravely, still gazing at him, barely blinking, “and worse. Therefore”—he reaches out and takes Bilbo’s hand, clasping it in both of his in earnest good will—“I’m adding two more water skins to your load.”

Bilbo, lost as he is in the unexpectedness of everything that’s happened in the last minutes, doesn’t quite hear. Then the words register. He desperately pulls himself together, and yanks his hand from Thorin’s. “Two—what?”

Thorin blinks, and then grins wickedly. “You are more than equal to every dwarf here,” he explains. “I must let you do your part.” At that moment, Dwalin calls out that they may need to reconsider their route, and Thorin turns away and heads for the Company without a backward glance.

Watching him go, Bilbo curses himself and the bad luck that brought him so far from his hobbit hole, where he’s at the mercy of goblins and orcs and dwarves, yes, even kings with words like birdsong and eyes like fire.

 

Nights in Mirkwood are filled with the scufflings of forest creatures, but not, Bilbo thinks, the squirrels and rabbits of the Shire. Here there are other things, without names, all the worse for their invisibility. Nothing can be seen of them—except their eyes.

Bilbo shifts to the other side and stares at a yellow pair that gaze back without blinking. The pupils seem to grow, yawning wider and wider as if they were—as if they were moving closer!

Bilbo sits bolt upright. His fear is such that only a muffled yelp escapes his throat, and he scrabbles for Sting—

“Bilbo, that is my nose.”

Thorin’s voice is barely more than a breath. Bilbo jerks his hands back as if he’s been burned and succeeds in locating the hilt of his sword, but there are other hands on his now.

“Wait.” Thorin yanks him back to the ground so that they’re side by side, pressed very close together. There’s a slight noise as Thorin draws his own blade a few inches.

That’s all it takes for the eyes to blink and vanish. Bilbo breathes a sigh of relief he hadn’t realized he’d been holding and relaxes—against Thorin. With a hasty mumble of apology, he scoots as far away as the tight space will allow, which is less than half a foot. His face is so hot, it must be glowing in the darkness.

Orcrist slides back into its sheathe with a soft _snick._ “There’s no need to apologize,” Thorin whispers. “The very air is unsettling in here.”

“You’re right about that.” Bilbo glances nervously at the shadows again—it’s all shadows, really, but he looks at the place where they’re deepest. “They say there are barrow-wights on the edge of the Shire, and I never thought I’d go near them, but I suppose I should have been more careful what I wished for.”

“These are no barrow-wights,” Thorin says. Bilbo knows that, but stays quiet. “The Shire must be a bright and happy land indeed if the wights have no power there.”

“It is,” Bilbo says immediately. He’s struck with a wave of homesickness, the strongest he’s felt in a long time. “You can see the stars every night,” he says, looking up at the pitch black of the trees, “and there are orchards in the hills with the crispiest apples you ever had. The Brandywine flows through one part and there are birds—” He stops short. Why is he babbling? It’s not as if Thorin is interested.

But Thorin says, “I should like to see it.”

Surprise makes Bilbo widen his eyes in the darkness. “It’s nothing,” he says quickly.

“You speak so fondly of it,” Thorin insists, “how can it be nothing?”

“I mean,” Bilbo says, “I only meant—there are no great halls in the Shire. No thrones or golden crowns. No treasure.”

“That you love it is treasure enough,” Thorin says softly, almost too quiet to hear. Then he says, more loudly, “Sleep well, Bilbo,” and rolls over.

What with those words and the eyes that have returned to stare at the Company, it’s a long time before Bilbo can do anything of the kind. But when he finally does drift off, he dreams of home—and when he wakes, it doesn’t hurt.

 

The Arkenstone weighs down Bilbo’s pocket and his heart as he approaches, his feet sliding slightly on the gold. “Thorin,” he says slowly, cautiously. Fearfully.

“Bilbo.” Thorin turns. “Have you found it?”

“Er—no,” Bilbo lies, and watches Thorin’s eyes grow dark. He begins to turn away again. “But I was just wondering,” he says hastily, scrambling for an excuse, “if—if you might like to see my tree someday.”

There’s no comprehension in Thorin’s expression. “Your tree?”

“The one I’m going to plant,” Bilbo explains. “In the Shire, with the acorn from Beorn’s garden. I’m going to plant it when I get back,” he reminds him.

“Ah,” Thorin says. There’s a glimmer of recognition. “It will grow very tall,” he says, turning an emerald over in his fingers.

Bilbo nods. “Yes.” This is useless, this stilted conversation. It’s achieving nothing, creating only echoes in this dusty hall. “So—would you like to see it?”

Thorin appraises him with dull eyes and a rueful twist of his mouth. “It would have to be very tall indeed to warrant a journey from Erebor to the Shire.”

“Well.” Bilbo flounders. “The journey won’t be so bad, surely. After all, you’ve already made it once.”

“And for what?” demands Thorin, taking several steps toward him. He spreads his arms, the emerald still clutched in one hand. “A mountain that reeks of dragon, filled with the corpses of my kin but empty of the chief treasure? Without the Arkenstone it is almost worthless.” He tosses the emerald away.

Bilbo listens to the sound of it hitting gold somewhere out of sight. “Come and see the Shire, then,” he says, knowing it’s useless, unable to stop himself.

Thorin shakes his head. “This is my home, Bilbo, my true home, and I cannot leave it now.” His voice grows cold, and he turns away. “I do not expect you to understand. You could not comprehend such things as this.”

 _Listen to yourself,_ Bilbo wants to say. He almost does, but bites his tongue just in time, remembering Thorin’s threat to Dwalin. He remembers— _one of them has taken it,_ in a tone that belongs in different caves. He fingers the ring in his pocket and shudders. If Thorin called the Arkenstone his _precious,_ Bilbo wouldn’t be surprised. He turns and walks away with dread dragging at his heels.

 

_Thorin Oakenshield died at close of day on November the 24th, in the year 2941 of the Third Age._

Bilbo pauses. That won’t do at all. It leaves so much out. In his mind, he can still see it—the sunset bursts orange over the Lonely Mountain’s peak and turns the ice to flame, and across the sky Eagles wheel, and in his arms, Thorin draws his last breath.

He closes the book firmly. The writing will have to wait for another day, although he’s been telling himself that for far too long already. Three years and two book attempts, and still it’s mostly unfinished—mostly un-begun, really.

How is one to write it, though? What words can encompass it, that terrible, wonderful adventure? _Go back to your books,_ Thorin had said, _and your armchair. Plant your trees, watch them grow._ He’s done that. But going back isn’t so easy in the end, he’s discovered. Some part of him never left the mountains.

Outside the window, it’s autumn, with the leaves beginning to turn. The Gaffer is pushing a wheelbarrow full of bright apples up the path. They’ll be in pies later, Bilbo knows; he can already taste it. Then will come the frosts and the birds will fly away to the south, and the winter will lay its chilly blanket over the hills. That’s when the stars are clearest.

Bilbo shakes his head and removes his hand from his pocket and the ring that lies within. What had Thorin said? _If more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world._ It is, in a quiet kind of way, though the sadness lingers like an ache in his chest.

“Bilbo!” someone cries, and he leaps to his feet. He peers out the window but can’t make out the front step behind the wild bloom of the garden. The cry comes again, and a furious pounding on the door. Two or three fists, at least.

He knows that sound. He smiles.

**Author's Note:**

>  _Nadan utun_ means, to the best of my knowledge, something like "weak-willed child." Thorin's a little harsh.


End file.
